


Bleeding Heart, Brutal Mind, Broken Soul

by endlessnepenthe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Dean Winchester, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Castiel is Protective of Dean Winchester, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Married Castiel/Dean Winchester, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Silly Dean Winchester, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Dean Winchester, Stabbing, just a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 11:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20692589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe
Summary: Castiel Winchester has been living a blissfully domestic married life for two years now. Every new day is peaceful, a blessing. Until Jimmy Novak returns to haunt Castiel in an alleyway with the deadly promise of painful death.Except the blade isn’t pressed to Castiel’s neck, isn’t breaking his skin to draw his blood. It’s at Dean’s. And Castiel is going to watch as his life bleeds out under wide confused emerald eyes.





	Bleeding Heart, Brutal Mind, Broken Soul

“Hey!”

The figures turns around. Feeble light glints off metal pressed up against the pale column of a throat. A face he knows as well as the back of his own hand, beautiful features twisted in wild eyed terror. Focused gaze and dark clothes of a man with a mission.

“Get away from him.”

A bark of laughter, sharp and incredulous.

He stalks forward a single threatening step, sinking his voice into the deep gravelly tone that was at once both familiar and not. “I won’t ask again.”

“Y-you’re Novak,” the man gasps, eyes round with realization as he pushes his blade harder against Dean’s neck. “Don’t—! Stop right there!”

Castiel freezes, eyes darting to the dagger. It’s beautifully deadly, perfectly sharpened, double edged. And scored deep into the center of the unblemished blade is a pair of wings — one crossed over the other — with a slit pupiled eye on top. To most people, it wouldn’t mean anything beyond a possible belief in divine power, like God and angels, on the part of the owner. But for Castiel, it’s something he’d hoped to never see again in his whole lifetime.

“Listen, we’re not a threat. Leave us alone, we won’t cause any trouble.”

“Is that a joke?” The man scoffs. “Hah. And here I was wondering why my next mission is someone like this. I know who you are, _ Jimmy.” _

“Do you?” Castiel stalks forward, lowering his voice until it’s the menacing growl of Jimmy Novak, and smiles. It’s frigid, devoid of any amusement. “You, a mere Angel— One of the lowest, weakest soldiers of the Garrison?”

The Angel flinches, stepping back several paces and dragging Dean along. “One more step—”

Tipping his head to the side, Castiel stops. The smile disappears as quickly as it appeared, leaving nothing behind — his expression is frighteningly blank, gaze as focused as a predator tracking prey. “He bleeds a single drop, and I will bleed you _ dry.” _

“You’re just a— just a scary story. It’s been _ years _ since you’ve seen any action. I’m— I’m not scared of you!”

“A shame. You should be.”

Dean chokes on a cut off whimper of pain when the blade bites into the delicate skin at the base of his neck. Blood drips down his collarbone, flowing slowly but steadily from the wound, dark as tar in the dim alley.

Castiel’s heart sinks faster than a roller coaster going down a 90 degree drop; it must show somehow, because the Angel grins triumphantly.

“I think you have it the other way around, _ Novak.” _

It’s been so long, Castiel had nearly forgotten how it felt. He’s learned to despise violence, learned to enjoy the peace in the comforting repetition of daily monotonous life. Learned how to _ love. _ So Jimmy had been shoved into the darkest back corner of his mind, locked away with intentions of never letting him out again. Because when Castiel’s with Dean, he’s _ happy, _ and no one has to die for it. Then they had bickered warmly and affectionately over ring designs, gotten married in a cozy church amongst closest family and friends with wet eyes and wide smiles all around. Castiel had gazed into damp emerald eyes, said his vows with all the conviction and love he held in his heart, kissed slightly chapped plush lips, and had silently decided that not a single person would have their life — their chance at happiness — taken away by his hands ever again.

But Castiel’s angry. This man has touched Dean — Castiel’s beautiful husband Dean — with intentions to hurt him, made him bleed. No, Castiel’s not just angry. He’s _ murderous. _ He’s ready to skin the bastard, remove each and every one of his fingers, slowly break all his bones— Castiel plans to return the pain the damn Angel has caused Dean; tenfold, hundredfold, _ a thousandfold. _ And Jimmy’s more than happy to come out and play again.

“Had you apologized and backed off, I would’ve let you walk.” Castiel sighs heavily, the sound oozing with saccharine disappointment.

Both the Angel and Dean flinch at Castiel’s tone, but for different reasons: the Angel with the panicked realization of a person that had made a grave error, Dean with wide wary eyes that seemed to be seeing Castiel for the first time. Castiel waits until he catches Dean’s gaze; when he does, he holds it.

_ It’s still me. Cas. _

The fearful confusion slowly clears from Dean’s eyes as he blinks rapidly, seemingly taken aback. His brows are still pinched with pain but hesitant trust is blooming in his expression, small and fragile like a child having been teased a few times too many but still attempting to believe.

_ Hold on a bit longer for me. Just a little more, I promise. Trust me. I will definitely save you. _

Dean’s chin dips in the tiniest of nods, and even though the blood still blooming forth in fat droplets from Dean’s neck is making Castiel more anxious than anything else ever has in his whole entire life, Castiel can’t help but think that Dean is absolutely breathtaking. Gruff but kind, outspoken yet quiet, both impulsive and thoughtful. He’s a grand gathering of contradictions, a heart of raw gold, a soul so pure it glows.

And not that Castiel has tried, but he simply cannot think of anything better than being able to go home to Dean’s ridiculous jokes and warm smiles after exhausting hours working at the office. Or listening to Dean ramble excitedly about any or all of the numerous cars (and the occasional motorcycle) he’s worked his magic on that day, from any flat surface he’s sprawled on — preferably one of their plush sofas, if Castiel’s managed to haul Dean there — as Castiel putters busily around the kitchen making dinner. Or their indulgently luxuriating weekend mornings, when they’re both curled up together on their bed, dozing lazily in a golden pool of warm morning sunshine streaming into the room from between the thick blackout curtains that Castiel never fully draws together — he enjoys seeing the silvery ethereal light of the moon at night and then waking up to the sun.

The recently conditioned part of Castiel tells him to plead for mercy and pray they will be spared, because violence is not always the answer. And because, despite the way that Dean is usually quick to anger, he now glares and holds himself back from throwing the first punch; Dean doesn’t want to see Castiel hurt because of him, and they both know that Castiel hates to see Dean hurt. If Dean is abstaining from violence, then Castiel has no right to do any less.

But right now… Dean is hurting and something in Castiel’s howling in rage, hungry for vengeance. And Castiel knows, this particular threat doesn’t end with just one person.

“I told Michael I was _ done _ with that life.”

The Angel laughs. “Oh you don’t get to decide when you’re done.”

Castiel chuckles in return, low and dark. “So he sent _ you _ after _ me?” _

His suspicions are only confirmed by the way the Angel immediately goes pale at the prospect. Michael has clearly never entertained the idea of sending someone to get rid of Castiel; instead, his goal has always been _ Dean. _

_ Destroy my life and get me to go darkside again, huh? He did like me more than the others— probably because I did everything he wanted, exactly how he wanted. A perfect soldier. _

“You know, I’ve never really understood why someone like you would want to leave. You could’ve had anything you ever wanted— anything you could ever dream of— and you walked away from it.”

_ Dean is more than everything I could ever dream of. _ “You’re kidding, right? I’m replaceable.”

“Replaceab— You were the top — you still _ are _ the top — and you think that’s _ replaceable? _ There haven’t even been any _ Archangels—” _

“Then you know exactly what I’m capable of.”

“The only Seraph? Who _ hasn’t _ heard of you— you’re famous.”

Castiel frowns. “...Why are you still here if you know I can and will carve you like a pumpkin without batting an eye?” He has to bite gently at the inside of his cheek to hold back the upward twitch of his lips when he sees Dean’s simultaneously startled and aroused expression.

“Because,” the Angel grins, “you haven’t done that in forever, and I love a challenge.”

Dean’s endearingly outraged on Castiel’s behalf at those words; he’s scowling furiously, eyes glittering with challenge, and Castiel recognizes it as the same face Dean has right before he ends up breaking some asshole’s nose. One of Dean’s hands is inching up the side of his thigh, painfully slowly, so the Angel doesn’t notice. Castiel picks up on Dean’s intentions the instant he notices what Dean is doing, reluctantly answering the question in his gaze with approval.

_ On my mark. _

“Please don’t do this; I’d rather not hurt you.”

_ Three… _

“I believe you’re overestimating yourself, Jimmy. Don’t forget, I’m the one holding all the cards here.”

_ Two… _

“No, I don’t think so—”

_ One. _

“You’re underestimating.”

Then both Dean and Castiel are exploding into motion; Dean’s movements are clumsy but quick and bursting with raw power, Castiel’s deadly grace and smooth as a dance.

Stomping the heel of his boot down, Dean smacks the wrist of the arm holding the dagger to his neck with enough strength to force the hand open; the weapon lands on the ground with a metallic clang as Dean stumbles away from the Angel. Castiel whips his own blade out from inside his jacket, clearing the distance to Dean with a handful of long purposeful strides, just as the Angel snarls an aggravated wounded sound and yanks Dean’s arm behind his back by the wrist.

Dean yelps — a sharp involuntary sound — and instinctively twists around in the opposite direction to free himself, lashing out with a fist. He manages to land a good and solid hit, but the man only grunts and squeezes Dean’s wrist harder in his unyielding grasp.

Castiel slides his triple edged blade under the bruises already making their appearances on the Angel’s jaw.

“Remove your hand.”

The Angel swallows nervously, glancing down at the blade and no doubt recognizing it with the way his eyes go round, but doesn’t move.

“It wasn’t a request,” Castiel grits out. He really doesn’t want to have to resort to violence.

A muscle in the Angel’s jaw flexs; somehow he manages to tighten his grip even more, and Dean’s mouth falls open on a silent gasp of pain he stubbornly refuses to lend his voice to.

Inhaling deeply, Castiel closes his eyes briefly on the exhale, recalling the wild ruthless side of him from years ago that delighted in the sight of blood. Flipping the blade down so it runs parallel to his forearm, he tosses it to his other hand. Castiel closes his right hand around the Angel’s throat, the left forcing his blade through the Angel’s forearm — it’s easy, flesh giving way without a shred of resistance. 

Dean staggers back, wrist cradled gingerly in his other hand, until his back hits the alley wall. He hisses a quiet curse as he presses a hand to the wound on his neck.

Dragging his blade out of the Angel’s arm, Castiel raises it between their faces — the Angel’s is slowly going red — and twirls it in an unhurried circle, watching with distant fascination as crimson trickles slowly down the blade. The Angel claws at Castiel’s arm, desperate fingers finding no purchase on his jacket. Castiel taps the bloodied tip of the blade against the Angel’s cheek, smirking when he receives the scattered attempts at a glare in return.

He leans in. “Don’t think for a second that I’ll let you walk away easily,” Castiel whispers, a secret between just the two of them. “I’m a man of my word, after all.”

“Cas,” Dean groans breathlessly.

Castiel instantly releases the Angel, rushing to catch Dean and crouching to help him slump down to the ground as his legs buckle. “Dean. Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Dean gasps. “Don’t— Don’t kill him.”

“Dean, he—”

Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Castiel shifts in front of Dean just as a gunshot rings out. Ingrained practice and long developed instinct guides his hand as Castiel grabs a midnight stained dagger from just under the hem of one leg of his jeans and pivots around on his toes to whip it directly at the Angel.

For a long tense moment, they all gape at the handle of the dagger protruding from the Angel’s neck in silence. Dean’s mouth is hanging wide open, and Castiel’s mind goes blank. He hadn’t deliberately aimed to be lethal; in that instant, his only thought had been to make sure no more bullets would fly in Dean’s direction, and his body had instantly — pure muscle memory — gone with a deadly debilitating move.

Then the Angel chokes on a wet gurgle, trembling hands rising to flutter uselessly around his impaled throat like nervous bumblebees. He flounders for breath, expression disbelieving and panicked, before his wide eyes go empty and glassy. Castiel and Dean are frozen observers as the Angel tips to the side and flops bonelessly to the ground, a puppet with its strings cut.

“He’s… He’s dead,” Dean says. His voice is steady without a hint of fear, and Castiel _ knows _ he’s in shock.

“He was going to kill you.” Even knowing the Angel is well and definitely dead, Castiel keeps his eyes trained on the motionless body, an emotion he can’t place — Regret? Relief? He doesn’t know — rushing through his veins.

Dean blinks, and this time, his words waver. “I… I know— I know.”

“I had to do it. I can’t—” Castiel looks down at his hand, fingers still curled tightly around the handle of his blade. “I can’t let anything happen to you, I had to—”

“Hey, hey! Look at me.” Dean cups a warm palm to Castiel’s cheek, thumb stroking soothingly over the swell of his cheekbone. “I know, okay? I’m just… _ shit.” _ He tilts his head back against the brick way behind him, staring up at the dark night sky. “I’m just _ shocked, _ I guess?”

Castiel can’t stop himself from leaning into Dean’s touch. “But not… scared?”

“Of you?” Earnest emerald eyes meet Castiel’s sapphire. _ “Never.” _

\---

“Thank you.”

“You be careful now, okay? Rest and take it easy, we don’t want you tearing any stitches — both of you.”

Castiel smiles faintly, dipping his head in a nod.

“What happened, anyway?” Sam winds his arm around Jessica’s shoulders with his eyebrows pinched in concern.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Castiel offers, shrugging and promptly wincing when a bolt of partially suppressed pain lances up his shoulder.

Dean wiggles restlessly on the examination table he’s laid out on, waving his hand around in a nonsensical pattern before outright _ giggling. _ “Cas ‘s my hero; he s’ved me.”

“You weren’t so bad yourself.” Castiel catches Dean’s wandering hand, weaving their fingers together.

“You w’re _ awesome—” _ Dean sighs happily. “So cool.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean juts his lower lip out in a dramatic pout and frowns. “Nah, sh’uld be thankin’ you.”

“Okay,” Sam interrupts with a laugh, “hate to interrupt, but it really is late. Want a lift home?”

“Oh no, it’s alright!” Castiel had purposefully requested for only a few painkillers — his tolerance for pain is much higher than normal anyway — in contrast to Dean’s low dose of morphine, just to make sure he will be in the right mind for driving.

“Are you sure? We definitely don’t mind.”

Castiel patiently coaxes Dean upright, slinging Dean’s good arm over his shoulder. “We’ll be fine. I’m sorry for having to disturb you two so late at night.”

Sam smiles. “Don’t worry about it. Losing a bit of sleep for family is nothing.”

Dean leans heavily on Castiel, nuzzling his neck and mumbling incoherently.

“Here—” Sam carefully ducks under Dean’s other arm, gently grasping his hand to avoid his wrist. “I’ll help you get Dean into the car.”

Together, they manoeuvre Dean into the Impala; with a soft grumble, he slumps against Castiel and seems to doze off.

“Thank you again, Sam.”

“Rest up, okay? Shoot me a text — or call — tomorrow when you wake up, I know Jess’ll worry.”

“Quit fussin’ Sammy, ‘m fine,” Dean gripes, peering up at his brother with narrowed eyes.

Rolling his own goodnaturedly, Sam reaches through the open window to pat Dean’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. Good night, jerk.”

“‘night, bitch,” Dean retorts. He smiles, a sloppy and crooked but genuine thing.

\---

It’s morning. Birds are chirping cheerfully outside the open window and the sun had already risen, shining warm and bright even through closed eyelids. Dean’s shifting around on the bed like he can’t find a comfortable position.

Castiel forces his sleep heavy eyes open in a squint to see just what Dean’s doing, catching the moment Dean frowns and huffs a defeated sound.

Dean’s eyelashes flutter and Castiel startles fully awake — _why is Dean waking up already? _ Not all aware or sure of what he was doing, Castiel gently sets a hand over Dean’s eyes.

“Go back to sleep, Dean.”

He feels Dean blink slowly under his palm, and for an instant Castiel’s worried that Dean will not listen, because he’s always oddly defiant in specific ways. Dean doesn’t move for several seconds, chest rising and falling with his deep breaths. Then his eyelashes brush lightly against Castiel’s hand as his eyes close, the tension dissipating from his muscles as his body goes limp and pliant with sleep.

Hardly daring to breathe, Castiel leaves his hand over Dean’s eyes for another minute. When he lifts it away, a part of Castiel expects Dean to wake, but Dean continues breathing softly, relaxed and serene.

The next few hours pass with Castiel alternating between dozing in the sunlight and counting the tiny freckles scattered across the bridge of Dean’s nose, until it’s nearly noon and Castiel can’t stand lying in bed for any longer. His body tells him it doesn’t need any more sleep, and Castiel’s quickly becoming increasingly more aware of the bandages that adorn both Dean’s and his own body.

Castiel makes quick and efficient work of changing bandages; he’s done this more times than he could ever count, before he’d met Dean. It is significantly easier when the bandages aren’t on his own body, and Dean doesn’t stir even when Castiel carefully drags a disinfecting wipe across the stitched wound on his neck, or when gentle fingers rub the prescribed specialized cream over the nasty hand shaped bruise around Dean’s wrist.

Pleased that Dean hadn’t felt any pain throughout the process, Castiel retreats into their bathroom to work on himself. Nearly his every movement pulls at the wound going through the meat of his shoulder — Castiel alternates between gritting his teeth and biting his bottom lip to prevent any noises from escaping. He’s winding fresh bandages around his shoulder, one end clasped firmly between his teeth, when something urges him to check on Dean.

Never one to ignore his gut instincts — for the times that they are wrong are few and increasingly rare — Castiel clumsily nudges the bathroom door open again to pad back into their bedroom. Dean’s blinking sleepily from where he’s sprawled out on the bed with a blanket tangled around his legs, half lidded eyes going round as he registers the loops of white fabric that Castiel is in the middle of applying.

Scrambling to sit up with a quick grimace, Dean reaches for Castiel. Obedient to the worry shining in Dean’s eyes, Castiel moves to join him on the bed, allowing strong fingers to collect both ends of the bandage. Suffocating silence descends as Dean works to finish what Castiel had started.

“...Dean?”

Dean hums a distracted sound.

“Are you alright?”

“‘m fine. How ‘bout you?”

Castiel frowns. “What about me?”

Dean whips his head up to glare incredulously at Castiel. _ “What about— _You’re the one that got _ shot!” _

“Oh.” Castiel smiles softly, leaning in to press his lips to Dean’s forehead. “Don’t worry, I’ve had worse.”

Inhaling sharply, Dean growls in frustration, raising a fist to thump it — devastatingly gently — against Castiel’s bare chest. “Don’t worry— _Don’t worry?! _ Cas, you _ took a bullet for me—” _

“And I’d do it again without hesitation, Dean.”

Dean’s expression crumples. “You—” He slides his hand behind Castiel’s head to grasp his neck, short blunt nails digging in, and tugs Castiel closer. “Get over here—”

As always, Castiel goes willingly. Dean closes the distance between them like a parched man finally getting water and smashes their lips together; he kisses with all the emotions he can’t — doesn’t know how to — voice. _ Relief: I’m so glad you’re okay. Anger: I can’t believe you did that. Frustration: I’m sorry you were hurt because of me. Desperation: Don’t do that again. _ And Castiel understands.

When they part, panting heavy breaths from between kiss swollen lips, Dean bumps their foreheads together.

“You _ dumb _ son of a bitch,” Dean chokes out, voice hitching in the way of someone who is about to cry.

His next exhale is shaky, and Castiel opens his eyes to see twin wet tracks streak their way down Dean’s cheeks from under his lashes.

“Oh Dean.” Castiel thumbs away the tears. “I’m alright, don’t cry.”

Sniffling aggressively, Dean glares at Castiel with damp eyes. “‘m not.”

“Good.” Castiel shifts closer to brush his lips against Dean’s.

Next is each of Dean’s cheeks. Then his freckles. One in the center of his forehead. Castiel cradles Dean’s face in his hands as he ghosts light kisses over Dean’s eyelids. The last one he bestows on the tip of Dean’s nose.

Castiel leans back; Dean attempts a stoic expression, but it soon breaks into a reluctant smile. Then Dean moves to get up, and Castiel grabs his hand.

Glancing down at his own hand trapped under Castiel’s, Dean’s face both softens and brightens at the same time, his resulting smile wide enough for Castiel to catch a glimpse of straight white teeth.

“Gotta empty my bladder,” Dean laughs.

“Ah.” Castiel sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, yanking his hand back to rub at the back of his neck.

Dean hops gracefully off the bed, sauntering to the bathroom. “Be right back,” he teases, and Castiel halfheartedly scrunches up his nose at Dean’s boxer clad butt.

Grabbing his phone, Castiel flops back onto the nest of blankets and pillows on their bed. He scrolls lazily through his emails, not looking up when the bed dips with a new weight. Cool damp hands press against the sleep warm skin of his belly and Castiel squirms, narrowing his eyes as Dean grins cheerfully.

With a content hum, Dean shifts to curl up against Castiel’s side, kicking one of their blankets over Castiel’s bare legs before wiggling his own under as well.

“Oh, right. Do you want to call Sam?”

“Why,” Dean mutters, already sounding well on his way to unconsciousness.

Castiel wraps an arm around Dean, idly running his fingers up and down the curve of Dean’s spine. Neither of them are wearing shirts, but the midday sunshine keeps them comfortably warm under its rays, enough that they don’t need to cover up.

“He said we should. Yesterday.”

“Mm.”

“Probably just to check in. Make sure we didn’t rip any stitches out in the middle of the night, or something like that. Speaking of, do you want any painkillers?” Castiel prods Dean’s shoulder blade. “Dean?”

“Nah,” Dean slurs. “Doesn’ hurt.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mm. Jus’ itchy,” Dean sighs, throwing an arm over Castiel’s ribs.

“Okay. That’s good.”

Castiel loses himself in drawing loopy figure eights on Dean’s back for a while. And when he finally remembers about calling Sam, Dean’s asleep, eyes subtly puffy from crying. He’s probably exhausted from his earlier emotional outburst.

Patting around until he finds his phone, Castiel scrolls through his contacts. Bringing the phone to his ear as it rings, he continues tracing meaningless patterns on Dean’s skin.

“Hello, Sam.”


End file.
